The soft creak of the axle sounded loud by comparison. The wind howled when it rose, but aside from that, quiet lay heavy on the land.
He felt a little foolish about wanting to reassure himself that Tam was still there, but it was that kind of day. Trying to hold the cloak one-handed did not do much good anyway he had his bow in the other, an arrow nocked and ready to draw.Īs a particularly strong blast tugged the cloak out of his hand, he glanced at his father over the back of the shaggy brown mare. Half the time when he tried to tug the cloak back around him it caught on the quiver swinging at his hip. He wished his coat were heavier, or that he had worn an extra shirt. Gusts plastered Rand al’Thor’s cloak to his back, whipped the earth-colored wool around his legs, then streamed it out behind him. For all that spring should have come a good month since, the wind carried an icy chill as if it would rather bear snow. Down it flailed into the Two Rivers, into the tangled forest called the Westwood, and beat at two men walking with a cart and horse down the rock-strewn track called the Quarry Road. īorn below the ever cloud-capped peaks that gave the mountains their name, the wind blew east, out across the Sand Hills, once the shore of a great ocean, before the Breaking of the World. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turning of the Wheel of Time. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the Mountains of Mist. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. Few poets can write with her earned grace.The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. They embody Lorca’s idea that duende is about self-discovery, of excavation through image and the imaginary. “When I say Vievee Francis is one of the finest living American writers, I say it without hyperbole. Who do we share the world with? Who do we ignore? What does it mean to live so closely in proximity to each other and to have such deeply complicated histories? At the heart of this book is this truth: what is the telling, and how do we go about the ways of doing so? With bravery, Francis peels back the layers, not leaving a simple understanding but instead, by the telling, examining the complications of what it means to tell.” -Fatimah Asghar, author of If They Come for Us: Poems In her fourth book, The Shared World, she charts a course of how entangled all of our lives are in today’s world. “Vievee Francis is, undoubtedly, one of the most compelling poets alive and writing today. Moan Soft Like You Wanted Somebody Terrible I Am the Only One I Know Who Can Cook Them On the Piney Woods, Death, Bobby Frank Cherry and MeĮpiphany: Parable of the Tongue Cut by Strings In truth, we are bound by one story, so you'd think by now / we'd tell it, at least to each other." “The secret to knowing the secret is to speak," she concludes, “but we too often tell / the stories of no matter and avoid the one story that does matter. What emerges is a realm of intertwined experiences. Her voice encompasses humor and gravity, enigma and revelation.
Books like back river quiver full#
“More hands than yours have closed / around my throat."įrancis's lyric gifts are on full display as she probes self-discovery, history, intimacy, and violence. “You can't stop this / song," she writes. These poetic narratives are brutal in their lyrical blows but tender with the bruised history left behind. This raw assemblage of poetic narratives stares down the oppressors from within and writes a new language in the art of taking back the body and the memory. Francis challenges the ways in which Black women are often dismissed while expected to be nurturing.
The book delves into inherited memories and restrictions between families, lovers, and strangers and the perception and inconvenient truth of Black woman as mother-with or without child. The latest collection from award-winning poet Vievee Francis, The Shared World imagines the ideas and ideals and spaces of the Black woman.
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